I sent it then to all the rest, to see how they would find it, But they with their durned printed slips "respectfully declined" it. W'en I got up that poem, in a wild, divine afflatus, My whole brain was runnin' over like a heaped up hill er taters; An' I rushed aroun' permis'cus like, an' not at all partic'lar, With my coat-tails horizontal, an' my hair perpendic'lar! An' I tore aroun' in frenzy, like a dog that's taken pizen; I was 'feared I'd knock the stars out, an' collide with the horizon; For all out-door warn't big enough for old Sebastian Morey, For I could shin a rainbow, right into the streets of glory! W'y! all space was stuffed with rainbows, hung with pots of gold to capture, An' all the everlastin' hills were bustin' into rap ture; The birds, the frogs, the grasshoppers, all sung their loud hazanner, An' every single forest tree turned into a pianner? If there was ever a poem foun' I had a chance to git it; An' heaven was blin'in in my soul, w'en I sot down an' writ it. The angels told it to me, sir, an' it would make me famous, If every tarnel editor warn't such an ignoramus! Wal, let 'em print their sappy stuff; but I can do without it. I've shet off my subscription, an' now let 'em squirm about it; The 'Lantic, an' the Century, an' Lippincott's, an' SEBASTIAN MOREY'S POEM. THE 'Lantic an' the Century, an' Lippincott's, an' Harper's, Scribner's, an' all the rest of 'em, is all a set er sharpers, W'en they fin' a son er genius, an' a reg'lar ten stroke poet, An' a close chum er the Muses, they don't know enough to know it! I writ a roarin' poem, and I sent it to the 'Lantic, An' then, w'en it come back nex' mail, it nearly driv' me frantic. READING PROOF. A PRINTER and his proof this thought suggest: The proof full soon a different aspect wears. With errors marred and marked, the unskilled eye Looks on despairing, seeing no avail; But, mark the change, when, printed, by and by, The blotched offenses into order pale. So may some life, we, superficial, scan, Seem pure and true; but, changing as we look, And even they who call "the stuff absurd," Men of the Press! to us is given, indeed, So onward toil, through darkness and through day; -From The Sanctum King." SINGLE POEMS. LEONA. LEONA, the hour draws nigh, The hour we've awaited so long, For the angel to open a door through the sky, That my spirit may break from its prison and try Its voice in an infinite song. Just now as the slumbers of night Came o'er me with peace giving breath, The curtain half lifted, revealed to my sight Those windows which look on the kingdom of light That borders the river of death. And a vision fell solemn and sweet, Bringing gleams of a morning-lit land; I saw the white shore which the pale waters beat, And I heard the low lull as they broke at their feet Who walked on the beautiful strand. And I wondered why spirits should cling To their clay with a struggle and sigh, When life's purple autumn is better than spring And the soul flies away like a sparrow, to sing In a climate where leaves never die. Leona, come close to my bed, And lay your dear hand on my brow, The same touch that thrilled me in days that are fled, And raised the last roses of youth from the dead Can brighten the brief moments now. We have loved from the cold world apart, Was rankling deep in my desolate heart, I thank the Great Father for this, That our love is not lavished in vain; Each germ in the future, will blossom to bliss, And the forms that we love, and the lips that we kiss, Never shrink at the shadow of pain. By the light of this faith am I taught In the strength of this hope have I struggled and fought With the legions of wrong, till my armor has caught The gleam of Eternity's sun. Lying here 'midst poppies and maize, tired of the loss and the gain, Dreaming of rest, ah! fain Would I, like ye, transmute the terror of fate into praise. Yet thou, O earth, art a slave, orderly without care, Perfect thou know'st not why, For He whose Word is thy life has spared thee the gift of Will! We men are not so brave, our lives are not so fair, Our law is an eye for an eye; And the light that shines for our good we use to our ill. Fails boyhood's hope ere long, for the deed still mocks the plan, And the knave is the honest man, And thus we grow weak in a world created to make us strong. |